Alan Abrams is a writer, editor, and reader based near the banks of Sligo Creek—not in County Sligo, Ireland, but in Montgomery County, Maryland, USA. Though Galway remains on his bucket list, for now, he sends only his words across the Atlantic. His work often reflects his wry sense of place and longing for faraway landscapes. Living in what was once called “the land of the free and the home of the brave,” Abrams continues to explore language, place, and identity from his American perch.
No Crime
As if these ice blue irises
along this faded picket fence
were deeded, and duly recorded
in florid script upon a yellowed page,
in some buckram bound folio
smelling of mold—no—
They were planted by a hand
long since departed;
they flourish in neglect,
and serve no greater purpose
than to entice a passing swain
to steal a handful for his sweetheart—
no crime there be, but
to let them grow in vain.
To a Lover, Foolishly Abandoned, for Her Birthday in Early April
What I wish for you: sunrise, with just the right
number of clouds, at just the right altitude,
to tint and refract slanting rays onto your garden;
air, mild and moist, a breeze strumming new leaves,
slipping through your open window like a stealthy
lover, gently waking you from slumber. Then
coffee brewing aroma; a cat brushing your bare ankle;
chores, light and familiar that await you and no more.
Then, a walk to be taken, redbud for color,
mock orange for fragrance, a lusty cardinal for a
merry song; redwing blackbirds, too, perched
on swaying cattails, calling for a mate.
Back home, books to be read; really,
too many of them, stacked on end table
and nightstand, one of them splayed open
on your favorite chair, and maybe a story,
anxious to be told—just waiting for
evening’s soothing silence and your pen.
Spider Woman
for Anne Becker
Word weaving spider, composes gossamer verses
ensnaring unwary readers in their warp and weft.
Inhabitant of the air; flimsy fabrication of molted
plummage, shimmering dust of a comet’s tail.
Creature of the molten center of the earth,
as deep in its core as the heart in her breast.
Daughter sister mother, lover of her lover, now gone.
Seeker finder speaker minder, word weaving spider.
To a Redhead
Love is a fire that consumes common sense—
which it must, for lovers to unite; particularly
for you and I, who were so alike
in our childish temperaments.
We made a lot of love at first;
it was that which kept us close,
but restless hearts breed jealousies,
and it finally came to blows.
Karen, I bear you no ill will,
these years we’ve been apart,
though when I found your brief obit,
you broke another piece of my battered heart.
Elegy for Lucy Horton Burge
The wind died and the trees stood at attention,
in silent witness to husband, sons and sister,
and closest family members taking turns
with the urn that held Lucy’s remains,
spilling them among the reeds
at the edge of Deep Creek Lake.
The air so still, a faint cloud of ash
rose and quickly vanished—
as though it was her spirit
on its way to heaven.
The Galway Review 